


Afterglow

by Anarfea



Series: Dance Till You're Dead Universe [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU of my AU, Does not stand alone, M/M, fragment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22076113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: An alternate version of Chapter 2 of Dance Till You're Dead from Jim's POV
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Series: Dance Till You're Dead Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589068
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	Afterglow

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as chapter 2 of Dance Till You're Dead. I didn't update that fic for literal years because I was trying to write it alternating between Jim and Sherlock's POV and it was Not Working. So I've revised that fic to be Sherlock's POV only. The only published chapter from Jim's POV was this one. I've moved it to a separate fic so that it's preserved in case anyone was super attached to it.

Jim takes Sherlock home. Well, to his home in Prague, anyway. An old building above a fine Czech restaurant in the city center. He presses the call button for the lift. The doors open. Sherlock steps in beside him. Jim doesn’t press him against the wall, but he wants to. Sherlock wants it too, he can see it in those dilated silver eyes.

They disembark on the third floor. Jim unlocks the door to his flat. Sherlock pauses in the entryway to unlace those massive combat boots. He’s got a knife in the toe of the right one. Jim frowns, annoyed his hired help missed it, but shrugs it off, toes off his own brogues. There are Persian rugs strewn about the floor. Assorted artifacts from Jim’s world travels nestle into creches in the walls. A mix of modern and folk art, no theme really, just whatever’s caught his fancy. He sees Sherlock take it all in. They walk into the sitting room, which is dominated by a black leather sofa.

“Drink?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” says Sherlock. “But if you don’t mind I’d like to….” he takes a small bag of white powder out of the front left pocket of his leather trousers.

Jim gestures to the glass coffee table in the sitting room.

Sherlock pours half the contents of the bag out, crouches down, and uses a credit card to cut the powder into lines and a rolled 500 koruna note to snort two of them. He stands up, rubs a twitching finger beneath his nose, and passes the improvised straw to Jim.

Jim isn’t one for coke, really, but he kneels in front of the coffee table and does a line. His right nostril burns and his face goes pleasantly numb. Then he grabs Sherlock’s fishnet shirt and rips it bottom to top.

Sherlock staggers, off balance, and Jim pulls him down into a bruising kiss. He presses their mouths so hard together he tastes blood. Sherlock breaks the kiss, tonguing the small cut in his lip over his eye tooth.

“Bed,” says Jim, grabbing the studded leather belt holding up Sherlock’s trousers.

He pulls Sherlock by the belt, walking backwards, leading him into the bedroom. It’s insulated; there are no shared walls between it and the neighboring flats. He intends to make Sherlock scream.

Jim strips out of his own suit, a charcoal Armani, then makes quick work of his shirt and underthings.

Sherlock shrugs out of the remains of the fishnet vest, unbuckles the studded belt. He’s obscene beneath those trousers--Jim can see his erection pushing against the leather and it makes his mouth water. Sherlock pushes the trousers down over his hips--no pants, the tart--and Jim drops to his knees, swallowing him down then and there.

Sherlock gasps, twining his fingers in Jim’s hair, walking backwards until his calves hit the bed.

Jim pursues him, still sucking. He tastes of musk, sweat and leather--it’s overpowering. He releases Sherlock, pauses to lick him from root to tip, then stands up, pushes Sherlock backwards onto the bed and climbs on top of him. “Want to ride you,” he growls into Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes,” Sherlock kicks the trousers down his legs.

Jim peels them the rest of the way off and flings them from the bed, then climbs on top of Sherlock, frots against him, slotting into the positively edible inguinal crease. There’s too much drag. He climbs his way up and over Sherlock’s body and pulls open the nightstand drawer, finds the lube, slathers them up and ruts. Sherlock bucks up against him, hissing as he grinds their erections together. His cock is long and slender and Jim wants it inside him. He crouches over Sherlock, grabs him and lines them up.

There’s a flicker of hesitation on Sherlock’s face. Maybe he’s worried about condoms, maybe he hadn’t expected to end up buried inside Jim tonight. But it fades, and then Sherlock’s fingertips are fluttering against his sides, smoothing, caressing, as Jim bears down. He didn’t use a lot of lube, so it burns a bit, but it’s good, being stretched like this. He squats until he’s fully seated, then arches his head back, cracking his neck. He rolls his hips experimentally. Sherlock groans.

Jim does it again, and again. Sherlock’s fingertips dig into his hips. He crouches, bouncing up and down until his thighs burn, throwing his head back as he rides. It’s fucking splendid. Sherlock is stretching him, splitting him open, and he adores every second of it, lets his mind empty and his vision blur around the edges.

His legs are beginning to cramp, so he shifts to his knees, falling forward with his hands bracketing Sherlock’s head. Sherlock cranes his neck up for a kiss. It’s loose and sloppy, more panting into one another’s mouths than kissing. Jim rocks his hips back and forth, grinding. Sherlock holds him, hands at his waist, thrusting up from below.

Sherlock draws his leg up outside Jim’s, nudging Jim’s hip, and after a few seconds Jim obliges him and rolls over. They stay coupled. Sherlock is on top of him now, pinning him down. Fuck. Jim tilts his hips up, taking Sherlock deeper, and wraps his legs around Sherlock’s waist. Yes. Every thrust is scraping his prostate at this angle and it’s heaven. Sherlock pounds and pounds and Jim had forgotten what it’s like, fucking a cokehead. He wonders if Sherlock is even capable of achieving orgasm, and whether he’s willing to chase it all night.

“Fuck,” Sherlock snarls, snapping his hips.

Jim laughs. “That all you got?”

Sherlock pulls out, sitting back on his heels and pushing his curls off his forehead. His face is red. “Turn over.”

Jim obliges, rolling onto his stomach.

“Arse in the air.”

Something in his tone makes something clench in Jim’s belly. He draws his knees up and lifts his hips. Sherlock grabs his hips and drives into him, pushing him forward into the mattress so hard it pushes the breath out of his body. Oh. He claws the bedsheets for purchase. Sherlock presses a hand against the small of his back, shoves him down, and fucks, oh how he fucks, hips snapping and rippling. Jim hangs on to the bed and takes it. He’s going to feel this tomorrow. He wants to have to perch in front of his laptop. He wants to bruise. He wants to bleed. He wants for Sherlock to split him in half.

Sherlock grabs the headboard for leverage and fucks Jim into the mattress. It’s brilliant. He’s balanced on his knees and forearms and he keeps sliding forward. Sherlock pins his neck to the bed. He can barely breathe. His blood pounds in his ears. He claws the bedsheets, digging his nails into the cotton. Sherlock’s flesh smacks against his again and again.

“Can you come like this?” Sherlock’s voice is raspy.

“No,” says Jim. But he doesn’t mind.

Sherlock kneels up, adjusts the angle, and yes, that’s better, that’s the spot. He groans. Sherlock slows down but ups the intensity, grabbing him by the hips and snapping hard, bottoming out with each thrust. He’s brutal, targeting Jim’s prostate each time. It’s too intense for Jim to come, and that’s fine, that’s splendid. There’s a pleasant buzz in his blood from the coke. His heart’s racing. His torso is slick with sweat. Sherlock takes and takes and it’s shaking him apart.

Suddenly, Sherlock loops an arm under Jim’s hips and rears up, pulling Jim with him. He leans back, pulls Jim so his back is flush with Sherlock’s chest. There’s no real leverage for him to thrust in this position, so Jim grinds instead, circling his hips. Sherlock runs one hand up the length of Jim’s torso, wrapping around his neck. He uses the other hand to stroke Jim off, hard and fast. Twist, pull, twist, pull. Jim circles his hips all the while. The combination of sensations is heady. Sherlock squeezes his throat, putting just enough pressure that he has to work to breathe. Jim wants him to press harder, to choke him until he blacks out. He leans into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock takes the hint, squeezing tighter and pulling harder, and Jim can feel his orgasm just out of reach. He wants to draw this out, but Sherlock has other ideas, tightening both hands. His vision turns green at the edges as he comes.

Sherlock strokes him through it and a little beyond, then slumps, still inside Jim.

“Do you want me on my hands and knees again?” Jim asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. It’s fine.”

Jim shifts forward onto his knees, letting Sherlock slither out of him. He flops onto the bed, face down, then rolls onto his back and beckons Sherlock to him.

Sherlock lies down in the crook of Jim’s arm.

Jim wraps around him, pressing their sweaty bodies close together. Sherlock’s cock is still hard, pressing at his belly. He reaches down and strokes it, idly, sliding his hand up the shaft and making a circle against the corona with his thumb.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Don’t bother.”

Jim kisses him, soft and slow, taking Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth. This is the best bit for him. The afterglow. That release of oxytocin. The liminal space between the frantic race for orgasm and the return to the mundane world. He traces a spiral on Sherlock’s bicep with his finger. Sherlock at least seems amenable to kissing and cuddling. So many of them just want to roll over and sleep.

Eventually, Sherlock’s cock goes soft. They lay entangled on the sheets. Sherlock is studying him, cataloguing Jim’s scars, no doubt. The marks of childhood scrapes and beatings. A stab wound between his floating ribs on the right side. Cigarette burn on his inner wrist. A few of Irene’s cuts from their last session across his thighs.

Sherlock is too polite (or too clever) to say anything, but he takes everything in. Then he scoots closer, pressing his forehead against Jim’s, and then slides upward, kissing the top of Jim’s head.

“Tell me a story,” Jim demands.

Sherlock pulls back, peers down at him. “What kind of story?”

“About your brother.”

Sherlock sighs.

“When you were younger.”

“Mycroft was a fat child. He’s got a weakness for sweets, especially pastry. He was portly until he went to uni, and then hormones got to him, I suppose, and he decided he’d like to get laid and hit the gym. He still struggles with it, though. He’s always hungry. For food. For knowledge. For power. None of it will ever be enough. He always wants more, but he denies himself. Or makes a show of doing so, anyway.”

Jim smiles. He’s seen them, of course. The photos that Holmes hasn’t managed to purge from the record: school yearbook pictures and one mention of an award winning science project in a local newspaper. A round-faced, heavy-bodied figure with curly hair. But it’s interesting to hear Sherlock’s perspective, biased though it may be.

He touches Sherlock’s hair. Those curls are so tempting. So soft. His fingers slip through them.

Sherlock smiles crookedly, then rolls away, stretching his impossibly long torso over the edge of the bed as he fumbles for his trousers. “I need another hit. Want one?”

Jim ignores him and stares at the ceiling. It’s glossy and gray, its expanse broken by a modern chandelier.

Sherlock snatches his trousers up, triumphant, and removes the little bag. He dumps the remaining coke on the nightstand and snorts two more lines. Then he slides back into bed.

“Leave,” says Jim. He doesn’t look at him.

Sherlock shifts on the bed, surprised. Then he gets up and picks his clothes of the floor and struggles into them, balancing precariously on first one leg, then the other as he pulls on his socks. He puts his trousers next, and tosses the ruined fishnet top in the bin with a thwack.

“I’ll see myself out,” he says, and walks out of the bedroom.

Jim can hear him in the hall: the thump of his combat boots, the sharp slam of the door.

He should get up and lock it. Instead he rolls over onto his belly. The sheets still smell like sex. He closes his eyes, even though he knows he won’t sleep. He’s crashing. He should have taken Sherlock up on his offer of more coke. But that would only have postponed the effects ‘till morning. Morning. He dreads it. Another day at the office. Sometimes he just wants to let it all collapse. Let the minions fight over the pieces. Fuck the missile plans and fuck Mycroft Holmes. Fuck his brother.

He regrets sending Sherlock away. It would be better to have a warm body to shiver against. But what’s done is done. He shifts onto his back. He can at least lie still for a few hours until the sun comes up.


End file.
